“MalPal,” he soothes. “I literally picked out of a hat. What was I supposed to do? Pick again?”
“Duh.”
The crisp five-dollar bill in my pocket crinkles as I slink beside Mallory, draping an arm over her orange-clad shoulders. I can’t lie. My deflated spirits were lifted the moment she strolled in wearing a bright orange sweater and colorful striped shorts, as if it isn’t thirty degrees outside.
I know exactly why she’s upset. We haven’t played table tennis for the Brain Bowl since freshman year, which is lucky considering she couldn’t win a single set. I think it’s because she holds the paddle like she’s trying to squeeze the living daylights out of it. I’ve watched the woman in the goal, gracefully stopping penalty kicks and goal attempts, which requires impeccable hand-eye coordination. But the moment there’s a paddle in her hand, she’s like a cat in a bathtub.
All claws and chaos.
Mallory shakes my arm off and slides to the opposite side of the couch like I’ve got the flu. “Actually, I blame you, Gray. What did you do? Bribehim with a cookie? Cade’s a weakling. That sugar fiend would give up his own little sister for a treat.”
“Would not!” Cade argues, but considering there are three brownies jammed into his cheeks, nobody believes him.
I scoff. “Dude, you licked an icicle on Christmas for the last piece of your mom’s fudge. It took half an hour to free your tongue.”
“He did what?” Mallory gasps. “No fucking way.”
“Language!” Cade shouts, even though his warnings do nothing for the potty-mouth beside me. “Plus, Mom’s fudge is worth the pain!”
There’s no arguing with that. Billie Owens makes the best desserts.
The soft upcurve of Mallory’s lips is revealed as she wrestles dark, tight springs of hair at the base of her neck. Then she looks at me, and it turns into a grimace. “You watching me, Gray?”
I shrug, waving a hand at her outfit. “It’s hard not to when you look like a walking Skittles advertisement.”
She leans over the cushion that separates us to pinch my faded black T-shirt. “Just because you wouldn’t know style if it crawled up your ass and introduced itself to your brain, doesn’t mean you have to dress so dreary.”
Feigning hurt, I grab my chest. My outfit isn’tdreary. It’s neutral. Black, gray, brown, white, and beige are my favorite colors.
In that order.
Leaning back, I use my only trump card. “Regardless, I’m currently leading the Brain Bowl, so maybe there’s something beneficial about not being a rainbow twenty-four-seven? Might want to think about the foolproof logic behind that.”
As if she had been waiting all night, Mallory snatches a grape from the bowl on the coffee table and pulls her arm back, but before she can chuck it at my forehead, Shay clears her throat.
“Enough.”
The single word is laden with exhaustion, exaggerated by a stony glare. Cade stands beside her, towering over her tiny frame. Still, she’s way more terrifying than the gentle giant beside her. I’ve seen her play soccer. She’s a ranked defender for a reason.
“Let’s get started. You guys know the rules,” Shay continues. “No violence. Best-of-five sets and sets go to eleven. As a reminder, Kenneth has nine points, and Mallory has eight points in the Brain Bowl.”
I grin at the side of Mallory’s face, and I’m sure she can feel it burning into her skin because she leaps up and pulls Shay to the opposite side of the room. Cade drops beside me, massaging my shoulders like I’m preparing for a boxing match.
“Feeling good?” he asks.
I nod. “If it’s anything like last time, we’ll be done in half an hour.”
Once settled on my side, I tap the paddle against my leg and watch the woman across from me. A few curls have escaped from their ponytail jail and hang around her face. There’s a ferocity in Mallory’s honeyed gaze, narrowed to study the table. Determination furrows her brow as a sliver of pink drags across her full bottom lip.
Mallory doesn’t play to win. She plays to dominate.
“You look cute when you concentrate, Ed.”
Her head pops up and she flashes me a wicked grin. “No way. Fake flirting won’t work tonight. There’s no getting under my skin when I’m in the zone, buddy. My serve.”
Buddy?No thanks. I prefer Gray.
I toss the ball over the net. “Remember when you serve, the ball has to hit your side of the table before—”
